In Spirit
by EmberDragon
Summary: My first ever fic. A serious Boromir fic - Boromir finds himself aware of his existance after his death, but, he asks himself, why? New - CHAPTER 8 UP!
1. Memories

Disclaimer: None of the characters/places etc. in this fic belong to me. I am making no profit with this story. 

A/N: Hi, this is my first story on ff.net, and I'm only 17, so please don't be too harsh on me! This fanfic deals with the events that happened after Boromir's death, as Boromir has not passed to the Halls of his fathers, instead remaining behind – it is his task to find out why.

I'm not too good with Tolkien lore, so if I get something majorly wrong, I'm all open to constructive criticism. Things may be a bit (or a lot) different plot-wise, though, as this is an AU fic. This is based on both book-verse and movie-verse, but try to think of movie-Boromir as your basis. Reviews are most appreciated!

In Spirit – Chapter 1: "Memories" 

The violent noise of metal against metal could be heard then - a harsh sound full of fury and menace, drowning out the noises of the wood, of the roaring of the falls, of anything. The single note of a horn blasted through the dense forest, echoing from every branch and bough of the trees. The sound trailed off abruptly, rapidly, and then…nothing. Or so it seemed.

"Thus passes the heir of Denethor…"

Was this just another echo? A sound that was not its own, that belonged to another? These words made no sense to him. He was spinning, reeling; nothing made any sense anymore. Where was he? He didn't know; he didn't care. That sensation was there; he was in motion, in turmoil, but still the strange feeling that he was lying down, unmoving. There was no light, and no sound. Yet somehow, through all this confusion, the words still came to him;

"This is a bitter end…"

End? To what? The questions confused him, but he had no time to concentrate. A searing pain was rushing throughout his tortured mind. And no matter now he tried, it would not leave. Desperately, he tried to cry out, for somebody to help him. But no sound came, as much as he begged it would. Realising it was to no avail, he felt himself collapse internally, and all was completely silent.

A different feeling came over him now - one of being utterly alone. There was a more familiar, welcoming feeling, however; he was beginning to be able to see small spots of light dancing in front of his eyes, as if awakening him. As he lay there, the light became brighter, but always retained a reddish-tint, as though he were viewing it through closed eyelids. He lay there for several minutes before regaining both the courage and the strength to open his eyes, in fear of what he might see.

He was lying beneath the outstretched branches of an old tree, on which very few of last summer's leaves remained. The branches were gently swaying, creating mottled patterns of light on the surface. Having finally come to his senses, he weakly sat up, for he still did not seem to have much strength in him. He did not know what had caused this delirium, and in truth was not too eager to find out. Nevertheless, he checked himself over. His forehead did not feel especially hot, and he could find nothing seemingly wrong with him. He cleared his throat, and shakily got to his feet, his horn knocking against his side. His horn! He took it with his hand, inspecting it for damage. Nothing - not a crack. So, it must have been a dream then, he thought, relieved. The urgency of the horn's call had indicated desperation, and the suddenness of its finish…

He shuddered. It was foolish to even think of such things. What mattered now was finding out where he was, and what had happened.

He almost cried out when he noticed what was before him. A mass of over twenty Orcs lay outstretched on the forest floor! He remained instinctively still, despite the shock, for at first, he did not know if they were dead or alive. But something told him he knew they were lifeless, before he had to make certain of this. He looked hastily over the wretched creatures. To his surprise, their hands held no weapons. This was extremely startling. Why had a large group of Orcs journeyed the great distance to Amon Hen bearing no arms? Had these been the ones who were following them? Following them…

These thoughts brought the Fellowship to the front of his mind. Aragorn had said that they were being tracked. Where were the others now? Surely they would not have left him on his own. Turning away from the grisly sight, he decided to look for them. It would do no good for him to be alone, especially if the threat of an Orc attack still loomed. Maybe then, when he was reunited, he could find…answers.

As he wandered, half in a state of delirium, his mind foggy and clouded, his thoughts drifted back to the Orcs, sprawled mercilessly across the forest floor. What had they been doing there? And, more importantly, he thought, what had _he _been doing there? Groggily, he muttered to himself whilst stumbling over the leaves.

"An Orc burial ground…" he said cynically, stepping over a stray log, "…a fine place for the son of a Steward to…rest!" He rolled his eyes, wondering what could have possibly brought him to sleep anywhere near the foul creatures. He certainly did not remember his decision to rest there, and this only confused him more. He cringed at the very thought, and it made his skin prickle. He tried his best to remain looking unruffled, however; for all he knew, he could meet with his companions at any minute.

He still felt frail and weak as he walked down the steep hill. The hillside was blanketed with old, brown-coloured leaves. As he moved, he heard no sound of them crackling or rustling under his weight. This had him slightly worried; maybe he was more unwell than he had first believed. Hurriedly, he made his way to the bank. After all, that was the place of which his last memories remained.

He remembered leaving his shield propped up against a wall of rock near the thin beach. Clinging to these hazy memories, he stumbled down through the woods onto the fine sand, unfocusedly searching for the precious possession. He saw nothing. There was the wall of rock, just as it had been, but…nothing. What of his companions? The boats? Were they still there? Staggering along the beach, he noticed something. One of the Elven boats was resting half-in, half-out of the lake, the water lapping gently at its sides. He could see by the imprints in the sand that another of the boats had been rapidly heaved into the water. His vision was incredibly hazy, and strive as he might, he could not see to the eastern shore.

This frustrated him intensely. What was the meaning of this so-called illness? He should be with the Fellowship, not aimlessly hunting around on his own. He jerked his head impatiently, scowling and cursing under his breath. And that is when he saw them. Standing solemnly by the bank, he recognized them immediately, and wondered why he had not noticed them before.

He approached them quickly, eager to find out what events had led to this unusual situation. On the sand near them lay a strange structure – a wooden bier, tied together with tight cords, which looked to him very much like the strings of bows. It caused him to stop abruptly in his tracks. The sight of the thing filled him with fear; it could only mean one thing. One of his companions had fallen.

He shot a glance upwards; Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas. Yes, they were there. But what of the hobbits? Since his waking, he could not shake off the feeling something terrible had happened to Merry and Pippin. Over the long and tiresome journey they had become his closest companions. He had always felt an outcast and yet still, privately, a worthy member of the Fellowship, even if others did not think as much of him. He begged secretly that the bier was not meant for them.

The structure looked too large for a single hobbit, which filled him simultaneously with both fear and hope. Could it have been Samwise? Or even, by some cruel chance, Frodo? He had always thought Sam was slightly suspicious of him, though he saw not the reason. His incredible dedication and protectiveness of the Ringbearer led him to believe they could have come to no harm; Sam would not have allowed it.

Cautiously, he approached his companions, now noticing the third boat on the waterside. He maintained his distance, however, as this was as painful for him as it was for them. He had witnessed many men fall in battle, and yet the sight of death would never cease to appal him. That, he thought bitterly, was something no man could come to terms with. Now he saw how Aragorn was clutching something tightly in his hands, looking mournfully down at the object.

The article, Boromir noticed, was silver, tipped with black, banded with gold. Instinctively he reached for the horn resting by his side, fear gripping his soul. No, it could not be! He grasped the horn and stared bewildered at its silver shape, the gold bands, at the menacing black tip. His face twisted with anguish, he looked up at his companion, who was now gently laying the very same object into the Elven boat. Terrible thoughts racing through his mind, Boromir rushed forward, staring fearfully into the vessel.

What he saw would forever reside in his mind, alike to a cruel, merciless nightmare, which could never be forgotten. The figure in the boat was himself, but lifeless, _dead_. The sheer sight of this caused him to grip the nearest tree, incredibly nauseous, holding his hand to his mouth as if he were going to vomit. He remained gripped in this horrible position for maybe a minute or more, before turning back to the boat.

The weapons of the Orcs he had slain were laid in the boat along with him, as was the missing shield and the remnants of his great sword. Steadying himself, Boromir looked down at his sheath, seeing to his surprise the sword still there, in its rightful position, and as he drew it, seeing also that it was completely unbroken. He did not understand this, any of it. It was impossible! Long had dreams haunted him, but why so cruelly? It seemed as if he could never rest, as if he were always pursued by nightmares. Yet this seemed so real. No, he reminded himself, this cannot be. And yet still the sinking feeling that this was true, that this was actual reality, resided with him. And still the echoes came.

"Thus passes the heir of Denethor…"

No! Those words! Had they truly fallen upon deaf ears? He remembered them as clearly as before, but now they made some sense. As these painful revelations weighed down on him, other memories, previously lost, came flooding back.

"I tried to take the Ring from Frodo…"

Only now did he think of Isildur's Bane. Curse the Ring! Long had it tormented him, occupied his every thought, tortured him. The mockingly spiteful voices had appalled yet enchanted him with the thought of power. Power to save his beloved City. The others could see it. He knew this. But he had ignored them, instead following the alluring voice that was breaking him apart, crippling his mind… only when it was too late did he realise his foolishness. And they had predicted it would take him, and lead him to his demise. How could a Captain of Gondor have fallen so piteously? Was he so shallow, so weak-minded? Curse it! Curse the Ring!

He buried his head in his hands, running his fingers frantically through his hair, trying to come to some explanation, some conclusion. None came. He had fallen; he knew it was reality. And Minas Tirith would fall with him. Even dreams could not convey this. And the pain; the sharp, sudden pain when the arrows had hit, that came back to him too. He needed no answers now; they had come of their own wretched accord.

Only one question remained unanswered. Why? Why did he remain? Why was he lingering here, when all else had left him? He walked miserably to his three companions, attempting not to look at the sorry sight of the funeral boat. Perhaps, by some miracle, he could talk to them; explain that he regretted his actions, that he had not seen the danger of the Ring. Perhaps that was why he was here.

"Aragorn?" he said submissively, unable to pick up any strength in his voice. The Ranger did not respond. Nevertheless, he tried again.

"Aragorn…" Louder this time. Yet still no reaction. The man merely stood there, staring out across the lake, seemingly at nothing. Boromir's heart sunk.

"So it is of no use," he said to himself, his voice wavering a little, "and they will never hear me." Looking across at his companions, he noticed the elf tilt his head a little, as if in confusion. Raising his hopes a little, Boromir walked to his side.

"Legolas?" Again, that slight motion in the eyes. The elf shuffled uncomfortably, moving his hand a little. He gave Aragorn a quick glance. The man noticed this, and inquired immediately.

"What troubles you, Legolas?" he asked in a concerned tone. He knew privately that they might not have the strength to fight off another Orc attack.

"Do you not hear it?" asked the elf worriedly. "There are whispers in the air. Something is nearby, though I know not what."

"Could it be Orcs?" Aragorn hissed, glancing around.

"Nay," said Legolas thoughtfully, "it is not an evil presence."

However, the thought of anything nearby troubled Aragorn, especially if even an elf could not detect what it was. He turned back to the boat, still resting on the shore. Bowing his head a little, Aragorn paced to the boat's side and gripped it forcefully. Legolas and Gimli walked down to aid him drive the vessel into the water. One large push was all it took for the boat to be carried away by the current.

The Sun seemed to bathe Tol Brandir in a golden pool of light, as it did his companions, still standing mournfully on the shore. The great falls roared, the sound emanating for miles around. Boromir watched as he saw the boat disappear, slowly, silently, and then altogether quickly as it slipped into the billowing mist and foam. He almost would have fallen backwards, were it not for his senses alerting him in time. Emptiness was a difficult feeling to deal with. He buried his head in his hands, and tried not to think about the boat, the falls, and least of all, the lifeless corpse which had stared blankly up at him.

"No," he said slowly, carefully, "I am _here_. I still have thoughts…and memories…therefore, in part, I am alive…" He sighed, regrettably. Reassurance may have aided many soldiers in battle, but it did nothing for him here.

"But then again," he reminded himself sourly, "they were not _dead_." The last word came sharply and forcefully from his tongue, seemingly lingering in the air, even seeming to taunt him, if that was possible. _Possible_, he thought, raising his head slightly, _that word I do not understand any more_.

Tears started to sting his eyes. He blinked quickly to banish them, and again stared down at the ground. Aragorn's voice startled him, causing him to lift his head. Looking at the Ranger through glassy eyes, he knew something was coming, though he dare not think what.

"We must find our remaining companions," said Aragorn sternly. "We can do nothing for Frodo and Sam now; they have chosen to go to Mordor alone. Perhaps by chance we will meet them again, but that is beyond our control."

"So we follow the Orcs, then," grunted Gimli. "I daresay I would like to give some more of the foul creatures a taste of my axe." He held up the fine weapon triumphantly. Boromir would have laughed…

Pain! A sudden, sharp stab of pain pierced his heart, more terrible than he could ever imagine. He clutched his chest, collapsing, crying out in horrible, twisted tones. Crumpled over on the shore, he could hardly breathe; each stifled breath seemed more difficult than the last. He felt himself weaken, fade – indeed, this must be the end. The end… his vision was darkening, the voices of his companions became muffled, low, and deep. He had the strange sensation that he was falling. Maybe now his torment would be over.

He could only hope. . . 


	2. Revelations

**In Spirit – Chapter 2: "Revelations"**

A/N: See the first page of this story for the disclaimer.

Hope you are enjoying the story! Thanks everyone for all your comments! Please R&R!

He awoke.

Where was he? Had it all been a dream?

No. He was still… there; he felt it. But he also felt a strange sense of vigour growing inside him, and his strength returning. He remembered feeling incredibly disorientated, and, wincing, remembered also the sharp, piercing pain which had forced him to the floor. But it had all vanished, disappeared. And now, he felt, he was not in the same place he had been before. What had that strange falling sensation been?

He slowly, and somewhat hesitantly, felt the ground around him. Incredulously, it was not the fine grains of sand from the shore; it felt hard, cold, like stone. Groaning, he propped himself up, and began to scan his surroundings. He did not recognise them; he realised he had never been there before. This sudden surprise caused him to laugh weakly.

"What kind of trickery is this?" he scoffed, hardly believing his eyes. The landscape was littered with sharp, jagged, monstrously cruel rocks, and the air was misty; it was difficult to see anything in the distance. There was a foul stench in the air, which he could not quite place.

He abruptly felt angered that he was there with no explanation. He was, after all, a man of reason. Glancing around, he could not see anything of any familiarity. The scenery was hostile to him, and he felt slightly threatened at its appearance. Frustrated, he pounded the rock with his fist. And then he left it there, clenched tight, for he was staring disbelievingly at it. As he shakily lifted his hand off the stone, it confirmed what he had thought he had seen – his hand cast no shadow.

He gasped, taken aback by this sudden discovery. Then, trembling, he leaned forward to look at the ground, for conformation. There was the shadow of the rock, cast upon the barren earth. But he himself caused no shadow at all – not even a faint glimpse was visible.

"This is no dream," he whispered shakily to himself. After steadying his breathing and settling himself down, he thought for a moment. Thoughts of his homeland drifted into his mind. He hastily shook them off, scowling to himself, realising worrying would do him no good. Finally he came to a decision. If he was going to be in this situation, it was sensible to observe what he was able to do.

Looking to his side, he noticed a weed sticking up from between two rocks. It was sprouting from a small crevice, not wide enough even for his hand. He reached cautiously for it, and delicately touched one of the leaves. He felt it; it was prickly and unpleasant. But, to his surprise, the leaf did not move an inch. This bewildered him. He tried to force the weed over. But no matter how much pressure he applied, the plant remained still. Withdrawing his hand, he relinquished.

Pitifully, he sighed. Realisation. No longer would he draw steel against steel in the heat of battle, to defend his beloved Gondor. Nor see the glorious White Tower again. Osgiliath had fallen, and, grimacing, he knew that the days of Minas Tirith were diminishing also. He heaved a deeper sigh, realising that he, the Captain-General, was powerless to stop it. Yet a glimmer of hope remained when he thought of the surviving members of the Fellowship. Aragorn had promised him in his final moments that he would not let the White City fall. This single thought gave Boromir the strength to prevail.

That, and the thought of his brother. He had been attempting to block thoughts of Faramir from his mind, instead concentrating on where he was, what he was doing. But a lump formed in his throat as the thoughts resurfaced. Thoughts of failure, of guilt, and of utter desolation. As much as he tried to deny it, he felt privately that he had abandoned, and thus failed, his brother. He remembered that fateful day he set off for Imaldris, the troubled look Faramir had given him. Pangs of grief now surged through his body as he realised he would never see his brother again. And he would never be able to tell him he was sorry…

"Who are you to pity yourself," he muttered sourly under his breath. "You deserve no forgiveness." He clenched his hands together, subconsciously pressing them so hard against each other with anguish that it caused him pain, which forced him to draw them apart once more. Conflicted, he swiftly stood to his feet. He noticed quickly that his great shield was still missing, returning thoughts of the falls, and the boat… no, he must not think of such things, he harshly reminded himself. After checking his precious horn and sword, he resolved to find, if it was possible, a way out of this endless torment. Perhaps there was a way to escape the taunting of his mind. _Well_, he thought, _if there is a way, I will find it_.

He decided to climb his way down a rocky prominence before him. The angle was reasonably steep, and he almost would have regretted it, had it not been for the numerous natural formations in the rock, which served as footholds for his awkward boots. It was a lengthy climb, and difficult, but one who was carrying such equipment would expect complications. In particular, his horn would knock repeatedly against the stone, distracting him. Once, unwillingly, he had to stop in order to adjust its position. He was relieved when he reached the base of the hill, and took the time for him to catch his breath to inspect his surroundings.

He was rather surprised to find how alike the whole area looked – no two areas looked dissimilar. Of course, he could not see far; but he got the impression that the situation was the same in every direction. Rocks, menacing, intimidating, formed the only significant landmarks in this stale environment. And there was still that stagnant smell in the air that he had found incredibly difficult to ignore. Sighing piteously, he now realised his location. The Emyn Muil. He commented privately to himself that he would not be surprised if anybody had become lost in this labyrinth of stone. He just had to hope that he would not become one of them.

He walked on. The maze of jagged rocks now seemed endless, as more and more stones appeared, ghost-like, out of the mist. He had been walking for a whole half hour before something caused him to halt.

He was following a rock-strewn path when it happened. At first, he was unsure of it, and somewhat in denial that it even existed. It felt weak, and infrequent. But he was experiencing a sickening feeling that was all too familiar. _No_, he told himself, _impossible._ Yet, by some strange chance, he could not bring himself to believe even his own reasoning. Maybe if he kept moving, it would leave. But no. As he walked further, it only increased in strength. He tried desperately to deny it, to banish it as his cruel imagination. Only, no matter how forcefully he struggled, it was there. And he knew, as cold reality dawned on him, that it was close.

And suddenly he heard them.

Voices. Were they real? He instinctively drew his sword. Although knowing it would do him no good, he felt increasingly secure with a weapon in his hand. Who were they? Or were they there at all? His movements became a clumsy series of frantic jerks, as he attempted to detect the direction of the strange sounds. And with his panic still came that overwhelming feeling of familiarity; but it was entirely unwelcoming, _false_.

The voices were coming closer. This enabled him to find their source of direction, as sight was not much of an aid in the enveloping mist. He tracked them silently, save for the sound of his trembling, irregular breaths. The hand which held the sword began to shake, at first only a small twitch, but becoming increasingly violent. He had to bring up his other hand to force it under control. His mind was racing with thoughts he had just dismissed as foolish! How? How could this be happening? He had realised his weakness, and yet was allowing it to be exploited once again. He could not understand, and he could not overcome it.

Already fearing what he might observe, he slowly prised himself up onto a large rock and peered over its jagged edge. And whom did he see but Samwise Gamgee, stumbling over the dangerous, rocky slopes. He felt incredibly relieved to see another of his companions alive. _If only I could say the same for myself_, he thought rather acidly. Boromir saw his face brighten with delight as he noticed a rather more even section of rock ahead of him. He was reasonably close to Sam, and so kept his head down. He was still not sure of himself, of what he was.

But then again, he had never really known himself…until he had been put to the test.

He watched as Sam heaved his large pack onto a great slab of stone, after which he sat down somewhat thankfully. Boromir guessed, by the manner of these actions, that he had been travelling for some time. Sam sat for a few seconds, breathing quickly, inhaling as much air as was possible with each gasp. Then, he turned, facing back up the path from which he had come.

"Mr. Frodo?" he inquired enthusiastically, "Come here, see what I've found!"

Boromir shivered, and grasped his head with both hands, causing his sword to drop. It fell to the ground, landing on the rock with a metallic clutter. The second hobbit appeared from the path. Towards him came Frodo Baggins, and with him, he knew despairingly, the One Ring.

The Ring. The words stuck in his throat painfully, heartlessly. And he felt within him the same cruel, merciless temptation as he had before. Falling back behind the rock, he buried his head in his hands, and let the tears come. He would never be free of it. The temptation had pursued him to all ends. There was no escape. It was hopeless, futile. He had the overwhelming desire for grief to envelop him, somehow transport him out of this vile place, anything to be rid of his yearning for the Ring and its hollow promises.

Yet when he was near it, its promises seemed anything but hollow. Power. The power to save his people. And the glory of Gondor. _No_, he thought, wiping tears from his eyes, _it does not bring either. It is deceit; it is idiocy to listen to such madness_. But _yes_. _Yes, it brings power. And it brings glory, to the one who carries it…_

No!

"No…" he whispered softly to himself. This word alone seemed to be enough to give him the strength he needed. Defying the Ring's tempting words had somehow made him feel stronger inside; he would not concede defeat. Not this time. He gripped his sword, which was still lying on the rock below him, and once again sheathed it.

He climbed down from his vantage point to the hobbits' stone platform, attempting to put aside any thoughts he had of the Ring. His eyes were still rather tearful, causing him to blink repeatedly. Nevertheless, he made it quite easily, as the descent was not as steep as before.

To his disappointment, the hobbits did not seem to notice him. Sighing regrettably, he sat down heavily on a nearby rock.

"Do you know how long we've been travelling, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam, reaching for something from his pack.

"I lost track long ago," said Frodo, "but it seems like forever. Everything here looks…alike." Boromir saw the hobbit glance at the area around him, for a moment looking straight at him. Hopeful, he fixed his eyes on Frodo's. Frodo quickly turned away, looking rather anxious.

"Ah," said Sam, lifting an item from his pack, "here. Lembas bread. Do you want any, Mr. Frodo?"

"What?" said Frodo, gratefully turning his attention to Sam, "Oh. No thank you. I'm…not hungry." Sam looked at the hobbit questioningly, and opened his mouth to say something. But he stopped himself, instead breaking off a piece of lembas and chewing it thoughtfully.

"Well," he said with his mouth full, "there's always some here, if you want it, that is." 

Frodo smiled.

"Thank you, Sam," he said kindly, before looking in Boromir's direction again. He saw him reach uneasily for the chain around his neck. Did he feel it was under threat in some way? Boromir was slightly angered. This was not the Frodo he had known before. There was something different about him, although he was unsure of what it was.

Boromir stayed with them until nightfall. He listened to their hobbit tales, taking great pleasure in having company. The hobbits had carried enough material with them to make a small fire, and Boromir was thankful, for its warmth was comforting and gentle. He had managed to suppress his longing for the Ring thus far; but it was steadily becoming more difficult, especially as he had it within his grasp. He would try to resist for as long as it was possible for him to do so. But he had no idea how long that would be.

It was when the hobbits put out their fire that Boromir realised he was beginning to fade. But it was not painful, like the last experience; it was more of a subtle numbness that seemed to shroud his body. He was quickly becoming weaker, and also more frightened, as his vision started to blur, and then blacken, turning to darkness. He was… falling, somewhere, through space and time. And as he left them, he heard a voice; a menacing, rasping voice, alike to a distant memory…

"We wantssss it…"

A/N: It doesn't end there! ^_^ I'll write more soon! I also plan to draw a picture to accompany each chapter. In the meantime, please R&R!

-EmberDragon


	3. The Call of a Horn

A/N: Thank you everyone for your reviews! In response to your question, Teithol, I think Boromir does not seem to know his true capabilities yet. As he has not tried to grasp the Ring, he does not know what would happen if he did attempt to. It is also difficult for him to remember that he is disembodied, as the last time he faced the power of the Ring, he was alive. I hope this clears things up for you. : )   These are just my attempts to explain that line, but the meaning is quite difficult to get across.

Pipkin Sweetgrass: I am honoured that real long-time Tolkien fans are reading my fics. :) Thank you for your review. "Boromir Brandybuck" does have a nice ring to it – probably to do with the alliteration! 

Anyway, here's Chapter 3! Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

**In Spirit – Chapter 3: "The Call of a Horn"**

"Boromir…"

The most gentle, graceful voice he had ever heard. The tone, soothing, comforting, otherworldly, seemed to echo on for eternity. And light. The most vibrant, brilliant white light. Everywhere, he could see it. Yet, he found, there was no need to strain his eyes to see a thing. He could not bring himself to speak; the words had been stolen from his lips. There was no possible way to describe the beauty of this place.

"…Son of Gondor."

The voice was mournful now; it had a grief-stricken tone. But Boromir could not identify it as either male or female; it was unique, and entirely peaceful. But why did it sound so full of sorrow and regret? The manner of its tone brought tears to his eyes; tears that he did not understand.

"Who are you?" he managed, almost a whisper.

Silence.

For a brief moment there was no sound audible. And in this time, the place became more ominous to him. He did not know this place, and did not desire to remain there, alone. It was suddenly full of grief and despair, memories he longed to break away from, to escape. And he concentrated desperately on this thought. _Please_, he cried inwardly, _please, let me leave._

As if in answer, he felt himself immediately weaken, no longer able to stand upright. 

And he fell.

Descending rapidly, his mind full of terrible panic… The brilliant light faded quickly to menacing darkness, and he felt disorientated, confused. And through this he heard again the voice, though this time, seemingly inside his mind…

"Do not fear…he is waiting…but you do not have much time."

Who? Who did the voice speak of? Who was waiting…

He knew. His mind told him the answer. And he felt terrified, and thankful, at the same time. They would meet again. And this thought gave him strength as he plunged evermore into the darkness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The water lapped against the banks of the Anduin, and the reeds rustled gently in the cool breeze. Darkness had fallen, and a clear moon now shone upon the calm scene. But all was not still. An object was being carried along by the river, slowly approaching the bank. It moved steadily up and down, and glimmered bright white and silver when bathed in the moonlight. The river gently and respectfully carried it to the shore, which was blanketed with thick reeds.

The object caught on one of these plants, and proceeded to bob lightly against its stem. This motion caused an unusual knocking sound, raising the attention of a figure sitting near the shore.

Cautiously, the figure approached. He maintained careful distance, for all manner of things could be found in the river. As he came closer, however, he uttered a startled cry of recognition, and dashed to the bank.

Boromir felt himself return to reality as the cold of the night set in on him. He was unsure if his encounter had been a dream, as things so often were, but he still felt that the sorrow in the gentle voice had somehow etched a meaning on his heart. The grief evoked in those moments lingered with him for some time afterwards.

He immediately heard the sound of the river, which struck fear through his body. To him, the river was representative of all that had befallen him. He did not know how long it had been since he had fallen at Amon Hen; time had somehow eluded him. He looked up, to see a cloaked shape crouching at the riverbank. Somehow, he felt he should recognise him, but under only the faint moonlight, it was impossible for him to make any distinctions. Intrigued, he began to move closer. He subconsciously kept his hand on his horn, which hung by his side as he walked.

The figure scooped the object from the water, and let it rest limply in his arms. It was the same horn, once a brilliant white but now dull, caked in river mud. He noticed despairingly how the horn had been cloven in two, perhaps by blade or axe. No…how could this have happened? His hands were trembling as he brought the item to his chest.

Boromir faltered as he saw the horn. Once again, cruel memories came back to haunt him. He did not remember the great horn being cloven; indeed, the memories of his final moments were consistently hazy and unclear. Not that he tried to recall those times. As he stood motionless on the shore, the figure rose, and Boromir could see his face.

"The Horn of Gondor," he uttered, his voice wavering and disjointed.

Realising whom it was, the words spoken by the mysterious voice in his dream began to make sense. Overwhelming joy became utter despair as he grasped the situation before him. And the word came not to his lips, but to his heart. _Faramir_.

"Boromir…my brother…"

Boromir could hardly detect these words. They were spoken so silently and incoherently that they were almost impossible to hear, which made it all the more upsetting.

"What has befallen you? Many nights had I thought it was a dream; the boat on the river, that it could not be true, and yet there seemed to be no waking! _Where is your horn_, I cried…_where is your horn…_" He trailed off into silence. Boromir stood shocked, realising that his brother had witnessed his funeral boat… but how? How could the boat survive unscathed after it had fallen from Rauros?

He shook his head. That was not important. How could he stand so close to his brother, who was clutching desperately to the horn, and not comfort him? _But it would do no good_, he harshly reminded himself, and he could not refrain from cursing quietly.

Still, it did not hurt to try. Although hope was a rare thought at these times, somehow a glimmer remained in him wherever he travelled. He did not know where it originated from, or why it remained when all hope seemed lost, but it was comforting to know that in the deepest chambers of his soul, it still endured.

Picking up his courage and strength, he paced nervously to his brother's side. It confused him as to why he should be so anxious at approaching; something did not feel quite right. But he could not think what, and he did not mean to. All that mattered now was that he had a chance to say sorry, to apologise for his mistakes and to finally say goodbye. That would be enough. He would not ask for much. For he remembered the voice's words…

"You do not have much time…"

At first, he could not look at his brother. He merely stared out at the river, which, he knew, had borne his body past this point, and would eventually carry it out to sea. He could not help but shudder at this fact; just the thought of the lifeless corpse brought a lump to his throat. This caused him to turn to face his brother; indeed, if he had not thought of it, he may not have turned at all.

And Faramir was looking at him.

No, Faramir was _staring_ at him.

_At_ him. His expression was one of bewilderment; Boromir saw his eyes darting quickly and searchingly over him, and his grip on the horn slightly loosen, as if he would let it fall. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came. Boromir felt the same way. And as much as he hated to admit it, he knew that something was not right. Something in the voice had told him so.

"Boromir…" Faramir said, tears welling in his eyes, his voice barely a whisper.

Boromir too felt hot tears gathering and blurring his vision. How was this possible? Could his brother truly see him? Or was it another vile trick?

"But I saw you," Faramir struggled, "you…the boat…" Faramir glanced down at Boromir's horn, and then, quickly, at the object he held with his own two hands.

"Brother," said Boromir soothingly, his voice quivering slightly, "do not let yourself be troubled. Yes… I am fallen. But, for a brief time, I am here with you. Listen to me," he pleaded. Faramir looked up, and his brother could see the unmistakable path of a tear on his face.

"Faramir," he continued, knowing somehow that his time was running out, "Faramir, I am sorry. Fate has proved me a weaker man than all would have thought. Just know this. I will never abandon you. Remember this."

Faramir opened his mouth to speak, but another voice overrode him, and his words were altogether muted.

"He cannot," came the voice sternly, yet sympathetically. Suddenly, everything faded out of view, the river, the reeds, all succumbed to the light. 

"Faramir!" Boromir cried out desperately, as he saw his brother fade. "_Faramir_!"

"Boromir…" called the voice again. He recognised it as the same voice he had encountered before. Boromir collapsed to the ground in a heap, his hands cupped over his face. It was evident that he was weeping. Then, angrily, he thrust his hands to the floor, and shouted to the heavens.

"Why?" he cried piteously. "Why do you subject me to this madness? Can you not see I have had enough torment, enough pain, enough _death_? Why more?"

His voice quietened to a whisper, and once again, he fell to the ground.

"Why more…"

"Boromir," said the voice, in an angrier tone, "you do not understand. Nor do we expect you to. But you must listen." Boromir raised his head, tears streaming down his face.

"You must choose your own path now. We have guided you thus far. But you must discover on your own how to return. Only then can Faramir see you again." Boromir sighed wistfully. He had known.

"We have shown you but a glimpse of what may come to pass, if you should succeed. But we can do no more for you now."

_But what must I do?_ thought Boromir, renewed with lost hope, wiping away his tears. No answer came.

"You will find a way," said the voice, reassuringly. "We will speak no more."

His surroundings again began to fade, the light steadily dimming, and he suddenly found himself back on the slopes of Amon Hen, where he had been when the pain had struck him. He looked in the direction his comrades had left for. And he vowed privately that he would see his brother again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A/N: Hmmm… I'm not too sure about this chapter… I hope it's not too confusing! Please review!


	4. Decisions and Discoveries

Chapter 4: Decisions  
  
Boromir took a long look at his surroundings, still slightly suspicious of his mysterious encounter. Questions with no answers raced through his mind, blocking out all other thoughts. The air was cool and crisp, and the river journeyed on towards the falls, which were ever roaring loudly, ferociously, consuming every sound like a ravenous beast.  
  
It was still, and, turning back, Boromir noticed the bier lying motionless on the shore. Such a simple structure could evoke so much grief, so much longing. He would have picked it up, laid it in the river and let fate carry it from his sight. He would have.  
  
Bitterly he turned again to the path into the forest on which his companions had left. He wondered if it were somehow his duty to follow them. After all, he had sworn loyalty to the Fellowship. And the Fellowship would not fail, not while he was still here to prevent it. Even if he were not considered a member of the company, he would prove himself. Somehow. In whatever way was possible. He shuddered, and cursed to himself. It was folly to even use that word.  
  
The road his companions had taken would lead them through Rohan, Boromir knew, and then, past there, to Gondor. How he longed to see the White City again, to see the banners rippling in the morning breeze. How he longed to stand upon the White Tower, the fresh air upon his face, and to witness the magnificent view unparalleled in all of Arda.  
  
He had made his decision. He would follow them, for the good of Gondor and his people. If there were ever a chance of seeing Minas Tirith one last time, he would take it. He made sure his sword was by his side, and began up the hill. The trees stood like pillars on either side of him, and he was keen to leave this place, for it was full of sadness, deceit, regret.  
  
It was many hours before he would rest. There were many things circling through his mind, and it did not occur to him for a long while that he was tired. He didn't know how far he had travelled, but the moon was high in the sky, radiating reflected light onto the ground like an omniscient crystal.  
  
He could not remember the last time he had slept. His eyelids felt heavy, his muscles ached with a fiery strain, and he was struggling to remain awake. Glancing down at the bare earth, he felt slightly humbled that this would be his resting place tonight. He did not feel the sharp wind, nor the cold ground beneath him, and reclining on the soil, drifted into an uneasy sleep.  
  
"Merry!" an innocent, familiar voice cried. Desperate eyes searched his friend's tortured face. Bruised and bloody, Merry crawled and shuffled through the trodden grass. Time seemed to slow to a halt, as every last ounce of his strength was focused on getting to safety. Pippin eyed him constantly - no matter what, they would get out together. He knew deep down in his heart that they could never be separated.  
  
"Carry on, Merry," he urged, "keep going! We can make it!"  
  
"I'm sorry, Pippin," muttered Merry, breathing shallowly, "I didn't mean for-"  
  
"No," said Pippin, "no, Merry. We'll get through. You and me, together. See? There's the trees."  
  
The shrieks of Uruk-hai ripped through the air, and the shrill neighs of horses echoed like ghostly cries through the bitter night. It was near impossible to notice the two hobbits in the midst of the chaos.  
  
Stumbling down a hill and landing heavily on their backs, it seemed quite a time before they reached the forest in the distance. The branches arched over them like long, twisting fingers, darkness enveloped the winding roots, and the ancient trunks creaked and moaned, as the wind gusted around them.  
  
Boromir awoke with a sudden gasp, and feeling quickly around his surroundings, recalled where he was. It was then that he realised that his nights would often be troubled by restless dreams. He scowled. Every detail had been so vivid, so real! Boromir felt haunted by what he had seen, and the images troubled him for days to come. Resting his head in his hands, he hoped with all his heart that Merry and Pippin had made it to safety.  
  
Again, his thoughts turned to the Three Hunters. Where were they now? Surely they would have moved on, thought Boromir. He wondered if it were too late to track them. They could have journeyed far by now, and he knew not which direction they had taken. Boromir winced as he felt a strong need for companionship; he thought back to his long journey to Imladris - the lonely nights, the tiresome days, the pressures placed upon him constantly abiding in the back of his mind. How could I have been so foolish? he asked himself angrily. Surely I could have refused to leave Minas Tirith. I should have.but no, he reminded himself, if I had not left, Faramir could have in my place. I could never sacrifice Faramir for my own life. It is right that I had gone. Comfort came to him with these thoughts, and he managed a confident smile. Dawn was already beginning to break, casting long shadows on all but himself, and he vowed to go in search of the trees - the forest he had seen in his dream.  
  
The walk was hard, but Boromir could never cease to be amazed and enthralled by what he saw around him - earth-rooted mountains standing proudly, like daggers bent towards the sky, fields of green and yellow, stalks wavering under the wind, a sun giving wake to life wherever its delicate rays touched. However, the signs of unrest were forever evident in this idyllic landscape. Boromir had been following for a while a trail of filthy boot prints, in the hope that these were those of the Uruk-Hai, whose bloodcurdling cries echoed yet mercilessly in his mind. The prints were large, bulky, and left a terrible scar on the land. The very earth seemed to sigh in sorrow under this destruction. At last, he came to a high ridge. It did not take him long to reach the summit; the slope was shallow, and it was not a difficult climb. Standing on an ancient boulder, looking over the horizon, he finally saw what he had been looking for - a plume of smoke was rising in the distance. He did not hesitate, realising that time was becoming precious, and began to scramble down the steeper rock face. Perhaps this was a signal; maybe here, he could discover where to turn next.  
  
He ran through the fields, across the plains, ever closer to the pillar of smoke. What could have caused it? He again noticed the tracks of the Uruks, and reassuringly, they seemed to face the same direction. Boromir was curious. As he came nearer to the smouldering mound, he began to recognise a forest, and his heart leapt. So it was not a dream! Perhaps Merry and Pippin had reached safety! Boromir felt a sense of overwhelming joy as he continued to run; he had not felt this free since years passed, when he and Faramir would run the corridors of the White City, laughing and shouting - he remembered back to before she died, when he had been so happy, when his father had been.alas that these days were gone. But whilst there was hope for Gondor, Boromir remained strong.  
  
He adjusted to a slower pace as he approached the scene. He could hear the wind whistling over the plains and through the trees, filling the entire area with a mournful sound. The ground was in tatters. Boromir looked in disgust and surprise as he noticed the countless spears surrounding him, obviously rammed hastily into the earth. Each displayed the head of an Uruk- Hai, disembodied and hideous, staring with empty eyes and gaping with a twisted mouth - a warning to the forces of Mordor, and to anyone who dared come this way.  
  
Boromir found his companions standing by a smoking heap of mutilated Orcs and Uruk-Hai, and he would have been glad, were it not for the scene. The smell was repugnant, and made him want to retch. Surely Merry and Pippin could not have survived this destruction. He felt utterly empty, and was certain his companions felt the same way. Aragorn let out a terrible cry, and kicked an Orcish helm towards him in frustration. Lowering his head, Boromir remembered the ancient trees. If what I have seen is true, he thought to himself, then that is where my path must take me. Soon his companions came to the same conclusion, and in part lead by renewed hope, began their journey into the dark forest.  
  
It was immediately dark, and Boromir felt as if he had once again been plunged into night. The ground was covered in moss, twisted roots, and a damp, rotten soil. It was if this place had evaded the natural course of time; it felt entirely of another age. Why was there a sorrow in these trees? Each branch seemed to stretch out like an extending arm, beckoning for somebody to stay, to give eternal company to the lost spirits of the forest. Boromir tried hard to avoid the roots as he stepped deftly across the forest floor. He glanced across at Gimli, who was carrying his great axe warily, and holding it low on his chest, so as not to offend whatever was at work here.  
  
Finally the company reached a shallow grove. Aragorn and Legolas had seemed concerned for some time, and Boromir could not understand the Elvish they were speaking. Legolas fingered his arrows carefully, his eyes darting quickly from side to side. One hand was resting on his bow.  
  
"Do you sense something?" Boromir asked quietly, almost forgetting his circumstances. Legolas glanced at Aragorn.  
  
"Something is here," he said warily. He looked at Gimli. "Be ready".  
  
Gimli raised his axe, and stood forward on one foot, waiting for a chance to attack. Boromir reached for his sword, and unsheathed the silver blade.  
  
"If you draw your weapons, so I shall draw mine," he said sternly. He ran his hand fondly down the length of the blade, and remembered how it had aided him in many battles. It was all he could do to unsheathe it here.  
  
A great flash of white light emanated between the trees, causing Boromir to shield his eyes from harm. Legolas fired an arrow towards the light, only to have it recoil, thrown back against the forest floor. What was the meaning of this? As the light slowly faded, Boromir could make out a tall figure - a man in a brilliant white cloak, carrying a smooth staff, his long, silver hair draped over his shoulders like delicate threads. This is no man, thought Boromir, his eyes widening in bewilderment and recognition. Mithrandir!  
  
"But how is this possible?" he uttered, his voice disjointed and utterly unbelieving, forgetting everything that had befallen him for a split second. He had seen him fall; he had heard Frodo's desperate cry, spent time with the mourning Fellowship on the road to Lothlórien.  
  
"I come to you now at the turn of the tide," Gandalf said slowly. Scanning the faces of his incredulous friends, he frowned in apparent confusion. But just as suddenly, with a slight sparkle in his eye, he once again smiled, and spoke. "And I can assure you, my friends, that everything is possible." Boromir held his breath, and noticed his sword lying on the floor beside him. He could not remember having dropped it, and still stared on in disbelief. Aragorn uttered an exclamation of surprise.  
  
"I am Gandalf the White," he said, a warm smile on his face. Although Boromir had had suspicions of him on his long journey with the Fellowship, he was genuinely glad to see him again. Such a happy reunion he could only hope for. His companions embraced their returned friend, offering him hearty greetings, and Boromir smiled as he looked on, wishing that he could be a part of the celebration.  
  
They were to leave for Edoras, having learnt of the fate of Merry and Pippin, and Boromir was glad to be leaving for the lands of Men. The journey out of Fangorn was long and strenuous, but there was a newfound sense of security in the party, now that Gandalf had returned. It was as they were leaving the forest that Gandalf spoke again.  
  
"Go ahead, my friends," he said softly, "I have a matter I must attend to here." With a quick glance at each other, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli nodded, and disappeared swiftly out of sight. Boromir began to follow them, but felt, for a reason unknown, inclined to stay. Slowly he turned, to find Gandalf sitting on a fallen trunk, his staff resting upon his lap.  
  
"I will not question their ways," he said thoughtfully, glancing towards Boromir, who was standing tall beneath the bows of the trees. "If that is their will, I will do my utmost to aid you, Boromir of Gondor."  
  
Boromir said nothing. The words would not form in his throat. Gandalf rose to stand before him.  
  
"There is a just reason you have not passed to the Great Halls," he continued, "this is your own task, and only you can fulfil it. But as we are of little time, and as I have the power to do so, I can give you this advice." His voice lowered to a concerned whisper. "Go to your homeland. Travel to Gondor. I can assure you nothing, but there you may find what you seek."  
  
Boromir swallowed the rising lump in his throat, and felt a surge of happiness envelop him. He would see Gondor again! 


	5. Journeys

**bChapter 5: Journeys/b**

_IOh, to see the White Tower of Ecthelion! Its lustrous banners fluttering in the wind, carried high and proud by furious turbulence; its pearl-coloured surface glistening in the morning sun! What mortal eye or hand could possibly capture such a moment? For it is impossible to describe the beauty and dignity of what can be seen./I_

A sharp and long whistle echoed through the valleys, across the strengthening wind. Gandalf stood tall and majestically, staff in hand, waiting. They had reached the edge of the forest, and must make haste to Edoras. Saruman's power was at work, and Gandalf knew well what he must do. With a flash of silver in the rising sun, a horse charged furiously over the horizon. Gandalf smiled warmly.

"Why, that is one of the Mearas!" exclaimed Legolas, a genuine surprise in his voice. As the beast approached, Boromir could see the ethereal purity and strength emanating from the stallion, as if to show its worth. Gandalf gently caressed its head, and turned to his companions.

"Shadowfax," he said tenderly, "my old friend." He stroked his silver mane, and gave him a hard pat on his flank. His companions stared on in wonder as Gandalf mounted the stallion bareback. 

  
"He will not be saddled," said Gandalf, smiling knowingly. "Now come, my friends. We must ride forth to Edoras." 

  
"Never had I thought that I would see the day that a Dwarf shares saddle with an Elf!" grunted Gimli, as the Elven Lord helped him up. Legolas laughed. 

  
"These days bring stranger things," he said, with a bright smile. 

  
"Come, Gimli," said Aragorn, expressing amusement at his predicament, "we must yet have much travel together!" 

  
Soon, mounted and prepared to leave, the four companions turned to look out on the road ahead. Boromir would deeply miss their company. He bid them a farewell which none could hear, feeling both humbled and sorrowful. May you return safely, he thought, for the blessings of Gondor will be with you. Though deep inside, a concern was growing over his father. 

  
"He will not be pleased," he said sternly to himself. "I dare not think what he may do if Aragorn returns to claim kingship." Denethor was a bitter man, weaker in many ways than his father Ecthelion, but Boromir still respected him. He knew very well the reasons for his ways.   
  
I_"No, you are not permitted here," came a cold, cruel voice. A withered hand drooped before him, blocking his path. Filled with childish curiosity, riddled with concern, the young boy cried, and his voice was high and shrill. _

_  
"Oh, let me see her, father! Please let me enter!" The sound was full of desperation, and echoed from the walls like a grief-stricken moan. Near-silence followed. He could hear the shuffling of feet, and somewhere, the sound of distant voices. _

_  
"Your father has bid you to leave," spoke the harsh voice again. Caring not for this cruel instruction, the boy charged forward, thrusting the hand aside, his eyes encrusted with salty tears. _

_  
"Mother!" _

_  
He entered the room. A pale, dappled light was cast through the arched windows, and he could see her, lying motionless in her bed. The worn, slumped figure of his father knelt at her side, clutching her delicate hand. Denethor raised his head, and saw the complete devastation in his son's eyes. He too was crying. Raising his finger to his lips, he spoke. _

_  
"Hush, Boromir," he whispered shakily, "she yet sleeps." _

_  
Boromir cautiously approached his mother, and laid his hands softly on the elaborate bedspread, which cushioned her frail form. He began to stroke the velvet throws, the tears lining his eyes now falling, staining the material a deep, mournful colour. Denethor looked at him. _

_  
"Do you see, Boromir?" he asked desperately. "Do you see her beauty? Look at her, Boromir. She wanes like a fading flower, touched by the first frosts of winter." His glance turned to his wife's fair face, and his eyes were full of tears. "Every day she slips in and out of sleep." _

_  
Boromir looked upon his mother - a beautiful, noble woman – why must she lay helpless in this cold, foreboding room? Her skin was smooth and pale, her eyes gently shut. He reached for her hand, when suddenly she stirred. Boromir took a step backwards, wiping his tears on his sleeve. Denethor gave a short gasp, and kissed her hand delicately. She murmured something softly, as if caught in an inescapable dream. _

_  
"Mother, it's me," said Boromir hopefully, tears yet blurring his vision, "it's me, Boromir – remember?" _

_  
Findulias turned her head with great effort, locks of her hair falling gracefully around her face, and smiled. Her eyes were barely open, but Boromir longed to see them. He clasped his mother's hand to his chest, and held himself against it. Tears streamed down his face, leaving salty trails, and they left him, and flowed down her fingers. She had not the strength to speak._

_  
"Don't sleep," he said, gasping through his tears, "please don't sleep…" _

_  
Feeling a restricting hand on his shoulder, Boromir knew he would not be allowed to stay. He was unable to see through his blurred, swollen eyes, and could not remember being led from the room. All he could remember was the tears.   
   
That was the last time he ever saw her._ /I

Boromir waited alone as his companions vanished into the distance. They would ride long and hard, and now, Boromir thought to himself, I will journey also. He knew the voyage would be long and tiring, as it had been on the way to Imladris. But he had then a steed; on foot it would be even more strenuous. The only thing pressing was time; there was no need to fear for himself – but yet there was for his family, for Gondor.   
  
Suddenly, he felt a slight nudge on his back. Instinctively drawing his sword, he threw himself to face behind. Standing there was a horse, loosely saddled, with deep, round eyes, and a brown hide. Boromir checked his surroundings warily. Who did this creature belong to? There was nobody in sight. The horse blinked, and gazed calmly into his eyes.

_IThe following night, the little boy was troubled by restless nightmares. Tossing and turning, he wailed mournfully, gripping the sheets in fear. The wind whistled furiously against the stone walls, creating a cold and bitter draught. _

_  
Boromir opened his eyes. _

_  
Immediately remembering what had happened the previous night, tears welled over in his eyes, and he began to cry. Why could it not have been just a dream? A terrible nightmare…but a dream nonetheless? He pulled the sheet to his face, and wiped his eyes carelessly, glancing to the door. Where was she now? Sobbing, but managing to hold back his tears enough to maintain a quivering silence, he clambered out of his large bed, and lit a candle, which was standing on a chest near the entrance. Deftly he opened the large door, and entered into a smaller chamber. _

_  
The wind continued to batter zealously against the walls of Minas Tirith, and Boromir could hear with it the pattering of heavy rain – the signals of an approaching storm. Freezing in fear, he remembered how, in years passed, the flashes of lightning had illuminated his room, and his screams of undeniable terror at the rolls of solemn thunder that had endlessly haunted his nights. _

_  
He felt incredibly vulnerable. She had always come earnestly to his door, rested him on her lap, and kissed his forehead, sometimes staying to tell him tales of the warriors, who, Boromir reminded himself, were not afraid of the lightning. But if she could no longer be a protector, what could he do but be a guardian himself? _

_  
Using the flickering flame as a guide, he felt his way along the ancient walls, until he came to his brother's bedside. He placed the candle gently on the floor, as not to disturb the sleeping figure, and knelt quietly beside him. Though the light was dim, Boromir could trace the outline of his face, his soft skin glowing a pale orange in the radiance of the flame, his dark hair serenely cradling his tiny head. He could hear him breathing peacefully, and he seemed, Boromir thought, painfully oblivious to the troubles of the world. _

_  
"Faramir," he whispered, without intent for him to hear, "I want to tell you about our mother." His voice broke on this last word, and he found himself gasping for breath. He brought his hands to his face, and it was a long time before he could continue. _

_  
"She loved us, Faramir," he said through tearful eyes, "she loved you. Father said she longed for the sea." His voice heightened to a desperate panting. "Shall I tell you about the sea, Faramir?" Although no answer came, Boromir took it upon himself to describe all he had heard of the pounding of the waves, the calling of the gulls, and the water that seemed to stretch endlessly unto the horizon. _

_  
"She can't be here anymore," he said shakily, half-worrying if he would be caught, "but it doesn't matter, Faramir. Because I'm here." He reached out, gingerly stroking his brother's cheek. Faramir heaved a heavy sigh in sleep, but did not stir. _

_Boromir felt a great deal of pity for the fact that he knew his brother was too young to remember Findulias' loving care; the way she scooped him up in her arms, rocked him gently to sleep, sung her tender lullabies in his youthful ear. "I'll look after you." He took his hand in his own, and shook it feverishly. "I promise."/I_


	6. Realisation

**Chapter 6: Realisation**

Hunched double in a narrow cave sat a figure. His hands were clasped, and his head bowed. He did not appear to stir. Shadows of men were cast upon him as they walked by, their strong hands carrying much-needed supplies. Somewhere, the sound of running water could be heard, and the natural light of the moon shone gently on the world outside. But his world was lit by flames.

He was led to a long table, on which was laid out a large and extensive map. It was held down by discarded stones, and had received a great amount of wear. The guard began to describe their options. But Faramir cared not for this, and soon began to drift into a world where dreams and reality are intertwined; where memory becomes actuality – the deepest chasms of his mind.   
  
_For Boromir, you are here, are you not?   
_  
The cheering of many men could be heard then - a rampant, frivolous joy enrapturing the hearts and souls of all who heard. The sky was an ashen grey, the ground worn to mere scrubland – but today, it was theirs. Raising his sword to the heavens, his brother called out in ferocious rapture. The men pounded their feet and heaved their fists, crying his name in gallant victory, celebrating the reclamation of their beloved city.   
  
Faramir was glad of it. He had never sought attention since a time he could remember; long ago had that dream faded, and he knew Boromir felt guilty of this. _In many ways_, he thought to himself, _he has more troubles than I_. He loved his brother. And he knew, feeling warmth inside at the thought, that his brother loved him. But there was always a threat from their enemies, and his nights were troubled with what Boromir must face.   
  
_For he did not know what he had until it was gone._

  
"How now, little brother," he had always said, "do not let these thoughts trouble you! I made a vow to protect you, and I intend to keep it!" Faramir had always felt comforted by these words. But as the years passed, and the threats from Mordor became ever greater, he feared for his brother as never before.   
  
Faramir embraced Boromir as he entered the soldiers' quarters. He was of a taller and stockier build than Faramir, but they were much alike in their facial features.   
"The day is ours, little brother!" said Boromir triumphantly. "Once again we rise to the challenge, and we are victorious!"   
"And may there be many more occasions to come," said Faramir, smiling. "You fought well, brother." Boromir grinned, placing his hand on his brother's shoulder.   
"As did you," he whispered softly, "you truly are a worthy soldier."

Soon it became apparent that Boromir was to leave. His father had entered, seemingly taking no notice of his younger son, of which Faramir was not surprised. Boromir appeared uncomfortable in Denethor's presence, and Faramir could not help but feel a sense of guilt. _Boromir had not chosen to be favoured by his father_, he thought to himself, heaving a great and regretful sigh.

It was later that Faramir found his brother in riding gear, gazing toward the White Tree of Gondor, which adorned the city like a proud jewel. He said nothing – he merely stared for a time, sighed, and turned to his steed. In doing this, he noticed Faramir, watching him with shimmering eyes. The two looked intently at each other in silence, both feeling the other's undeniable pain. Eventually mounting the horse, Boromir gave a reassuring nod toward his brother, and flashed him a slight smile. But this smile was empty, Faramir knew, and meant nothing. With a quick turn, and a hesitant look back, Boromir disappeared from sight, destined for distant Imladris.

But why didn't I say goodbye… 

Racing across the fields at blinding speed, Boromir could not help but remember these times. _I had never wanted the Ring, _he mused to himself angrily. _It was just another of father's trinkets. He knew not of its power over men. _He had noticed something strange in Denethor's behaviour of late, and his ever-growing lust for power and control was sometimes frightening. His fear for Faramir's safety had heightened. Denethor's instability was easily exploited, and Boromir feared to what it could lead.

The landscape was vast, covered in blooms of green and vibrant yellow, and in the sky hung delicate clouds. But everywhere were marked the signs of destruction; pillars of thick, dark smoke billowed from ravaged villages, which Boromir's heart ached to see. Such mindless devastation! He felt bitter as his mind turned to the Orcs – terrible, mutilated creatures, bent toward destruction, their bulbous eyes straining in their hideous faces. He still regained no memory of the Uruk-Hai responsible for his death – perhaps those memories would arise over time. He dearly hoped that whatever it was had met a terrible end.

He continued to ride for many hours, the land racing past him an indistinguishable blur. As he furthered his travels, however, the concern arose in his mind that he might be headed in the wrong direction. His strong desire to travel had hindered his sense of bearing. The surroundings looked unfamiliar, and everything looked so alike – how was it possible to determine a path? _I must find the river, _Boromir realised sternly. _I must find the Anduin. That will lead me to Minas Tirith. _He was reluctant. These were the waters that had carried his lifeless, stale corpse past his brother's innocent gaze. Faramir had been blighted by these waters. But yet, cruel fate was leading him to find them.

Turning his steed, he began to search for any sign that would lead him toward the great river. Gritting his teeth, he muttered to himself how foolish he had been to not think his direction through first. The sun was beginning to set, and it was not long before he would need to rest for the night. Numerous stars appeared in the darkening sky, points of light so tiny in the unfathomable heavens that they should seem insignificant, yet so marvellous, that they graced the sky with a spectacular display of vibrant delight.

"It is no use," he said bitterly to himself, sighing deeply. He dismounted his horse, and began to search for a comfortable place to sleep. Wandering through the fields of endless grass, he found a soft bed of heather and bracken, flattened by the night wind, and lay down upon it. Clasping his hands across his chest, he began to close his eyes, when suddenly, a shuffling noise came from behind. Startled, he shot up, glancing nervously around, his breaths frantic and irregular. Was it the horse? He turned, and saw the creature grazing quietly, not far from where he had lain. He slowly lay down again, with great caution, only to hear what he had least expected to. Voices!

But these were no friendly voices - no Elven tongue, no Westron of Gondor – this was an entirely different tone of speech. He listened keenly, for the sound was carried across the wind. The syllables were rough and harsh, grinding and grating against his ears, filling him with undeniable fright. He recognised almost immediately that this was Orcish tongue.

He strained further to hear, perversely glad of this Orcish company. It was clear from their voices that they had been angered.

"It'll take ages to get there," grunted one, taking a stone and hurling it into a shallow puddle, "I don't see what the point is anyway."

"You'd better shut your mouth," retorted the other, snarling, "or Saruman'll 'ave you dead in an instant." They scowled at each other, their eyes brimming with rage. Boromir was intrigued. What were these creatures talking about? He crawled over the narrow ridge, and dropped down closely beside them, his boots making no noise as they hit the earthy ground. It was then that he noticed that these Orcs were not alone. Sitting not far from them, snapping and growling at each other, were two ferocious wargs. Froth spilled from their hideous mouths, and they sliced at the air with their pointed teeth, which were designed only to kill.

Boromir instinctively froze, afraid that these vicious creatures would notice his movement. But he soon realised that he need not fear them. They could hurt him no more than the blade of a sword, or the piercing stab of an arrow. Not even the crude, wretched arrows that had pierced his chest and shattered his bones…not even they could hurt him now. But in a curious way, he wished for pain. Pain was a part of life. His thoughts drifted back to times of battle, where he had sustained many a wound, and to his miraculous escape from Osgiliath. He felt none of this lust now, none of the will to persevere – only a numbness that seemed to circulate and dominate his entire body.

"Just go to sleep," continued the Orc, in an agitated tone, "there's a long way to go tomorrow. We 'ave to be ready for the ambush." The other Orc smiled wickedly, and rubbed his hands together, creating a slimy and revolting filth. Growling, his companion narrowed his eyes, and hit him forcefully on the arm. "Don't get too excited," he hissed, "you'll probably be dead by next evening."

Ambush? What were they talking about? Boromir leaned over to hear more. Whatever it was, he knew that his people could be at risk. It was not in his nature to back down when his people were in danger. Perhaps, by strange chance, he thought hopefully, he was meant to hear this. Perhaps there was something he would be able to do. No matter what it was, he would remain with them. These feelings of intrigue, and his desire for revenge, were too great to ignore.

They said no more. It was not easy to sleep in this strange company, and he preferred to remain awake, for fear of them leaving. He leant against the ridge, arching his back. The Orcs, deep asleep and snoring loudly, caused him constant irritation. He glared at them angrily. _You have killed many of my men_, he thought bitterly, though he said not a word. _Many of those men I knew well; many had families, families who will never see them again, because of you. _He scowled, and suddenly, could restrain his emotions no longer. He leapt up, thrusting his hands to the stars.

"You _killed_ them!" he roared. "Those men had _lives_! And you took that all away!" His breathing became shallow and disjointed, and he was overcome with an immense sense of rage. "_Why?_" he continued. "Why do we fight? Why must these innocent men be sacrificed?" Because of these ghastly, sickening creatures, his homeland, and his people, were under threat. It was difficult for Boromir to remain where he was; these beasts repulsed him. Just looking at their hanging faces made him want to retch. But he had no choice. Collapsing back down, he rested his head on his knees, and felt tears collect in his eyes. So many lives…and he had been responsible for them all. If he had made a different decision, maybe some of them would still be alive today. He knew that a man of his calibre should not think these things. _But_, he told himself, _peasant and Steward are not so different; it is this world that separates them. _He wept long into the night, these thoughts eating at his soul, leaving it in shredded tatters.

Morning came, and with it came the sun, creeping steadily over the horizon. Boromir blearily opened his eyes. Stretching, he wondered how he had managed to sleep that night. The ridge felt rough and uncomfortable on his back, but his tunic and boots remained unmistakably clean, carrying no trace of dirt or mud. It was a struggle for him to remember his circumstances, as everything seemed a dream. Nothing was real anymore; everything had changed. Getting clumsily to his feet, he glanced about for the two Orcs. At first, he was worried that they had left, but eventually he noticed them. They stood by their sleeping wargs. Watching them intently, he saw them untie the chains from the beasts' thick, furry necks, and throw them hastily aside.

"Come on, you useless creature," spat the taller Orc, kicking one of them hard with his armoured boot. The beast moaned and growled, shuffling to its feet. Boromir wondered whether it would attack, and his heart subconsciously filled with fear. However, his unlikely companions seemed rather nonchalant. The Orc dropped a piece of rotten meat into his warg's open mouth, and Boromir could see its fangs, dripping with saliva, and its pulsating tongue, too huge and repulsive to imagine. He swallowed the rising lump in his throat, and his expression turned to one of disgust.

Attempting to hold back the sickening feeling which was enveloping his stomach, Boromir's thoughts turned to his horse. If he were to follow them further, he would need his mount. Glancing quickly back at the Orcs, he climbed back over the ridge, and searched the grassy plains. He wished dearly for the sun's warmth. Something he had realised over his travels was that he was always cold. It was as if ice had frozen around his bones, holding them in an unbreakable grip. He longed for the warmth of the sun, the warmth of a tavern or an inn. He was truly alone.

Wandering through the fields of choking flowers, he finally noticed the creature, grazing in a patch of open grass. With a great sigh of relief, he sprinted steadily towards it.

"Good morning to you," he laughed, with a slight smile. The horse blinked at him. Boromir patted it hard on its flank, and stroked its thick mane. He wasted no time in mounting the beast, but before he could steady himself, was startled to see before him the two wargs. They had had been far behind him, and were now racing swiftly across the field. How fast they ran!

"Quickly," Boromir urged, "we must follow them!" He wished he were able to grasp the reins, but strangely, the horse seemed to sense his urgency, and understand his command. It turned its head, and began charging after the terrible creatures. Boromir gripped the horse's neck firmly, knowing that he would cause it no pain, and kept his head focused on the figures in the distance. The motion of the gallop was familiar and welcoming to him; it was a feeling of life, a feeling that he longed for. The landscape became a blur as they pursued the wargs, and the air rushed freely past them.

They had journeyed for a while now, and the beasts still showed no sign of stopping. Boromir knew that his horse was becoming tired, and that it was only a matter of time before they would need to rest. Suddenly, and to his surprise, the Orcs and their beasts disappeared over the ridge of a steep hill. Boromir slowed his horse to a trot, and they tentatively approached the drop. He knew that the horse would be clearly visible to his enemies, and that they could very well see it as a target. He had to make sure that it remained out of sight.

Boromir was horrified when he saw what lay ahead. The two wargs and their riders were charging down the hill towards what looked to be a furious battleground, littered, seemingly randomly, with the corpses of men and beasts. He held back a gasp, and was suddenly short of breath. This served only as a harsh reminder of the previous night. Filled with a morbid curiosity, that, in part, shocked him, he was suddenly inclined to fight alongside his fellow men, no matter how futile that would be. He could hear the shrieks of injury from where he stood; shrieks that pierced his heart, like the very daggers that were slicing through their innocent flesh, and, enraged, he placed his hand on the scabbard of his sword.

He drew a short breath as he felt the lust for battle surge through him; take hold of every inch of his body. His hand trembled as he gripped his sword, and he drew the blade halfway from its elaborate sheath. He did not understand this unmistakable desire to fight. _But, _he thought knowingly, _some things we are not meant to understand_. If his duties as a soldier were to overcome his rationalities, then that was clearly the will of his soul. Charging his horse forward, he unsheathed his sword, unleashing a battle cry he had cried many times before. The horse bared its teeth and pricked its ears as it awkwardly galloped downhill, its hooves clumsily sliding across the lifeless grass, which had been ripped to shreds by the ferocious wargs.

The sight must have been incredible for the soldiers; Boromir had almost forgotten that he could not be seen. As he raced through the battlefield, he saw the casualties strewn across the field; men that he would have been able to help, if it were not for his circumstances. One writhed near him, screaming, blood gushing from a wound in his chest. The poor man held his hand tight to the gash, his fingers blackened and clotted, and Boromir could see his chest shake and tremble as he tried desperately to breathe the grief-stricken air. He was glad to see that the Orcs had also suffered their losses; a warg was limping nearby, having lost one of its legs, and howled with great pain. It was uncomfortably difficult for Boromir to not feel for the meagre creature, as it hobbled piteously across the grass. _After all, _he thought, his brow furrowing, _they are all pawns in this petty game_. It was his duty as a Captain-General to uphold the merits and morale of his troops, but sometimes, even for him, it was impossible to deny these terrible truths.

He turned again to the injured man, who now lay still, his screams eerily silenced. Boromir bowed his head, and whispered a Gondorian oath, his breath trembling as he spoke. He knew that this one man would be too easily forgotten, and that thought shattered his heart. The kingdoms of Elves or Dwarves might not think much of the lands of men, but to him, they were his homelands and his pride. If they would not remember, then his people would.


	7. Rescue

Chapter Seven: Rescue 

"Where does this one go?" asked Faramir innocently. He thrust the figure in front of his brother's face. Boromir snatched it from him, studying it carefully. It was crude - a wooden, stick soldier, made with no real craft or skill.

_"He can go there," Boromir concluded, pointing to the back of Faramir's would-be army. Most of them were old toys of Boromir's, and since his little brother had discovered the figures stashed deeply away in Boromir's quarters, he was constantly wanting to play with them. He had few toys of his own._

_"But why can't he go at the front?" asked Faramir, reaching to take the soldier from his brother's hand. Boromir smiled._

_"Because," he said, "he will be the defence. He will go at the back, and protect the City." He handed the figure to Faramir, who looked at it thoughtfully._

_"The defence," he repeated, considering this concept, "then I shall name him Boromir." He looked up at his brother, grinning widely. Boromir could not help but utter a flattered laugh._

_"Oh? Why is that, little brother?" he asked, warmth in his eyes. Faramir giggled playfully in his little voice. He placed the figure behind the rest, just as Boromir had motioned._

_"He will be there to protect me – just like you, Boromir!" he said, beaming triumphantly. Boromir rustled his hand through his brother's thick hair, and smiled. He glanced to the toy soldiers, and scooped one up from the front row._

_"Ah, but who can forget Faramir, great Captain of Gondor?" he said, holding the figure before his brother. "He is the most important soldier of all!" But Faramir's expression was not one of happiness; it was one of great, genuine terror. Boromir followed his brother's glance, and was startled to see his father standing there, looking sternly down at him. He snatched the figure from Boromir's clasped hand, and stared at him disapprovingly. He did not look at Faramir. With a last glance at his elder son, and the soldier he held in his grasp, he furrowed his brow, and turned out of the room, his menacing robe billowing behind him._

An arrow shot across Boromir's view, and his horse quickly reared, almost causing him to fall from the saddle. However, he maintained a strong grip, and managed to stay in control of the beast. He turned to whence the arrow had come, and gasped in great surprise. There, firing arrows deftly from his Elven bow, was Legolas. His shots were incredibly accurate, and Boromir saw him target three or four Orcs, even in this short time. As the arrows pierced their armour, they screeched and wailed, flailing on the ground, and gasped for breath.

Boromir had not expected to see his companions this soon, nor to find them in the heat of battle. He glanced around for Aragorn and Gimli. Soon enough, he found them, Aragorn thrusting at the wargs with his powerful sword, and Gimli covering him with his mighty axe. He sat in complete awe of the Ranger's skill, and wondered how he had ever been so distrusting of him. 

_Boromir entered the room, and, seeing his brother hunched on the wooden floor, rested against the doorframe. Faramir was clasping something small in his grasp, and seemed in deep concentration._

_"What are you doing, little brother?" he asked happily. Faramir jumped at the sound. He brushed his hair from his eyes, and looked toward the door._

_"Nothing," he said quickly, shifting his attention back to the objects he held in his hands. Boromir laughed._

_"I do not think it is nothing," he said, walking into the room, "come; let me see." Faramir looked abashed, and made a frantic attempt to hide what he was holding. He thrust his hands behind his back, and his face turned a bright red. Boromir knelt down in front of him, and smiled warmly._

_"You need not be nervous," he said reassuringly, "I only want to see what my little brother has made." He winked at him. Faramir slowly brought his hands from behind him, although his fists were still clenched. Boromir cupped his brother's hand in his, and gently opened his fingers, a curiosity shining in his eyes._

_Resting in Faramir's palm were three figures. These were not the toy soldiers he had been playing with earlier; they were delicately carved, and intricately detailed. Boromir took one in his hand, and held it close to his eyes, studying the astounding craftsmanship._

_"Faramir," he said in amazement, "did you make these?" He glanced at his brother, his eyes wide. Faramir nodded, embarrassed. Then, in a flurry of enthusiasm, he pointed at the figure that his brother held._

_"That one is you," he said, detailing the features he associated with Boromir. "You see?" Boromir smiled._

_"I do!" he said, beaming. "Now, is this one you?" He took another from his brother's palm. It was slightly smaller, and less detailed than the previous figure, but nonetheless was an impressive achievement. Faramir nodded again, a smile forming on his face._

_"These are incredible, Faramir!" Boromir exclaimed, raising happy laughter from his brother. "And who is the last one?" Faramir looked at the last remaining figure in his hand, and suddenly turned silent._

_"Oh," he said, rather quietly, "that's mother." He gazed up at his elder brother's face, whose expression had now turned to one of grave sorrow. Slowly, he took it from Faramir's hand, and raised it to his eyes. The figure was blank - just a piece of wood, with no distinguishing features. Boromir suddenly realised, to his great terror, that even his memories of her were fading. He could no longer remember clearly what she looked like, or what she used to sing to him when he went to sleep…he had tried so hard to block out those memories, to shut them away in the past, that now they were disappearing altogether._

What Boromir saw next lingered in his memory forever, and troubled him for many days to come. He was startled when a warg shot past him, frightening his horse, which quickly began to gallop away. The beast was snarling menacingly, saliva dripping from its dagger-like teeth. Boromir had barely had enough time to calm his mount, when he saw what he had never expected; Aragorn had been caught on the warg's sharp riding gear, and was being helplessly dragged along the ground. Boromir saw him struggle, trying to prise himself free, but it was all to no avail. With great shock, he saw whereabouts the creature was headed. Frantically turning his horse, Boromir thrust it into a blinding gallop, heading for a nearby slope.

"Faster," he whispered to its upright ear, "faster!" The beast let out a shrill neigh, and charged down the slope, its hooves pounding against the dusty soil. Soon they trod on cobbles, as they came to the bank of a shallow river, which was trickling gently past the steep cliffs above. The precipice was lined with mud, and roots shot out of it like hands, twisting and writhing in pain. Perhaps this land felt the suffering of those who had fallen on its tainted soil.

They galloped through the river valley, over the pebbles and onto soft and gritty silt. Boromir became increasingly worried, as still he had caught no sight of his companion. He knew, by the momentum of the charging warg, that he would have inevitably been thrown from the cliff. Turning, and turning again, he noticed that the river was flowing faster from this point. He realised that a man could easily be carried downstream in this strong current. Fearing for his friend's life, he charged his horse onward, concentrating only on the river before him.

After a short while of searching, he became ever more doubtful of finding Aragorn. He took a time to think things through, as he continued to scan the bank for any sign of life. He wondered why he felt so compelled to save this man. He knew that his father would greatly disapprove of it, of his great warrior son. But Aragorn was fast revealing his loyalty to the race of men, and to Gondor, despite Boromir's earlier suspicions. Deep inside, he knew that Aragorn was a worthy man - a man worthy of the crown of Gondor. He prayed that his father would give up his place of power without a fight – after all, the Stewards had ruled in Gondor for so long, that Denethor would, Boromir knew, consider himself King in his own right. _Please, father, _he thought to himself, _retain the honour of the Stewards, your honour to Gondor's crown, and recognise the rightful King…_

He had many doubts that Denethor would recognise this in the way that he had, and he heaved a great and pitiful sigh, when he thought of what was to come. 

Suddenly, drawing him out of his thoughts, he saw something on the bank. He galloped towards it at great speed, and as he approached, recognised the unmistakable figure of Aragorn, his arms spread wide, and his eyes gently shut. His face was barely above the water, and, fearing that he could drown, Boromir quickly dismounted, and ran to his side.

The Ranger's face was a sickly pale, and he did not stir. Boromir pressed a hand to his pulse. Sure enough, he was still alive, but merely unconscious. Boromir sighed in relief. He was not too late to save him. Stumbling about in the water, which, like air, seemed to pass straight through him, he called to his horse. He was still amazed at how the creature could understand him, how it could sense his presence and yet not feel him on his back. The animal trotted steadily to Boromir's side, and began to nudge Aragorn's limp form - first softly, then increasingly harder. Boromir found his fists clenching in anticipation, as he saw his companion regain consciousness. Aragorn blinked, and almost instinctively gripped the horse's reins, thrusting himself out and up from the river.

Boromir remained in great awe of his determination, and smiled, as Aragorn heaved himself onto the back of the horse. The Ranger slumped forward slightly, and Boromir noticed a deep wound, sliced into his shoulder, which turned the folds of his tunic a deep red. His lip trickled black blood, and his eyes were merely half open, as if waking from a dream. He took the reins in his shaking hands, and led the horse forward. Boromir rose from his kneeling position, and walked slowly beside the animal, resting his hand against its shining coat. He gazed into its large, unblinking eye, and found that it calmed his soul – something that was sadly rare in these strange days.

They had been travelling for many hours, although Boromir had long since lost track of time – Aragorn gently riding the horse, Boromir walking, unbeknown to his companion, by his side. Aragorn had not uttered a word since they left. He seemed in a great daze, and many times he was forced to stop and rest, placing his hand to his shoulder to stop the constant flow of blood. Boromir felt pity for him, and walked at his friend's pace, determined to stay with them, to stay with something that was familiar to him – for it had been a long while since he truly felt at home.

The sun was beginning to set, turning the grass of the fields a glorious gold. Boromir raised his hand to his chest. He remembered the arrows that had pierced his body, rupturing his nerves, and the pain that had seared through him…he had never felt such a pain. And somehow, although the reality of that injury was gone, the scars remained. He could feel it. Every day, when he woke from the mists of sleep, he could feel that ache once more. He realised, glancing at the fading sun, that he had never seen the sunset on that fateful day. 

Why were his memories of that time still so clouded? He glanced up at Aragorn, who was gently rocking up and down with the motion of the horse.

"You know what happened," he said, realising how long it had been since he had spoken. After all, if there was nobody for him to speak to, then what purpose did his voice serve? He paused for a moment. "I do not know why I forget. My soul aches to remember, but I am shown only the pain." His companion did not react, and Boromir sighed in anger. _Why can nobody hear me? _he asked himself, biting his lip. Lowering his head in despair, he wondered just how real he truly was. His voice trailed off into the wind, but the breeze did not carry it – it merely disappeared.


	8. Reunions

**Chapter 8 - Reunions**

Soon it became clear to Boromir as to where Aragorn was headed. He had not given it much thought since they left; he was so glad of companionship that direction mattered little. As they reached the top of a ridge, they could see in the distance the stern form of Helm's Deep, its tower stretching menacingly into the sky, dominating the surrounding landscape. From the exterior, this place looked dark and cold, entirely hostile to the outside world. But Boromir knew that here, Aragorn would find refuge, and more than his share of welcomes.

It was when Aragorn saw the structure that he began to increase his speed, now faced with a reachable goal. Boromir was forced to run alongside him, although, such as he was, he did not tire easily. Something that this curse had given him was freedom -freedom, as he had never felt. Although Minas Tirith was his home, and he loved it dearly, he could not help but feel trapped, trapped in a cage of honour and duty, one whose bars would not break without consequence. Perhaps he was a fool to have succumbed to his father's restrictions so easily, he thought to himself. But it was too late to change what he had done, too late to change the past – and if he could not live with his mistakes, he could not live with himself.

Approaching the great gate, Boromir stared in wonder at the great structure that stood before him. This was a stronghold of Men, where many had found refuge before, a safe haven from the outside world. And yet, as he passed through the entrance, he did not feel truly secure. Something inside was warning him; some unknown sense that he could not understand, for all seemed calm in the Deep.

It was quickly spread by word-of-mouth that the unthinkable had happened. A murmur of voices could be heard as Aragorn dismounted the horse, and Boromir could see, over the parapets and the walls, the faces of men, their expressions incredulous and disbelieving. _Aragorn had returned! _The Ranger acknowledged each one of them, but remained surprisingly unruffled by the attention he had raised. Boromir knew that it would be as if he were back from the dead. He frowned sourly, his mind turning back to the fact that he could have no such reunion, no matter how he longed for it.

Aragorn turned, heading for the doorway that would take him to his friends. As Boromir followed him, a thought occurred to him that had not entered his mind before. He almost stopped in disbelief as he considered it further. If he had survived after death, lived on after all hope seemed lost…_then why not his mother?_ Surely she would have experienced the same as he. Boromir pondered this thought as he paced the long, stone corridor, barely noticing the people either side of him. If she was here, then where was she? She had not shown her presence in any way that he could see. Despairing, he wondered whether she was there at all.

A familiar gruff voice could be heard above the shouts and cries of the men, and Boromir smiled as he saw Gimli thrusting his way through the crowds to meet his friend. The Dwarf looked up at Aragorn, an expression of disbelief on his face.

"You are the luckiest and most reckless man I ever knew!" he laughed, smiling widely. He embraced his friend, and Aragorn smiled warmly back at him. As much as he wanted to, Boromir found it hard to watch. Something caught in his throat as he saw this happy reunion; something that would refuse to leave him at peace. For Faramir did not have him any longer. He closed his eyes as he realised the utter finality of his death. All the things he had longed to be for his brother, he could be no more. The simplest thing – a shake of the hand, a familiar embrace – the simplest action was impossible. Boromir knew that his brother would feel the same lonely ache that haunted his own dreams. _He has no family left_, he thought pitifully, images of his father's stern gaze forming in his mind, _nobody who will care for him_. He pounded his fist against the other in hopelessness. He needed some way, just one way, to know if his mother was there - to know that she was with him on his journey, and that neither he nor Faramir were alone. Summoning up all his courage, he recalled what little memories he had of that time. _Mother, _he thought, almost aloud, _are you there? _ Silence. "It is hopeless," he muttered, his voice catching on itself. He had promised to himself that he would never give up hope, but in times like these, the very concept of that seemed impossible. Inhaling deeply, he turned his gaze to Aragorn."Gimli, where is the King?" he heard him ask frantically. Gimli motioned ahead of them, and Aragorn nodded in thanks. Following his friend through the stone passage, he could hear the metallic sound of sword against shield echoing in the distance. There were many men here, tired and weary-looking, some with their heads buried in their hands, some staring blankly into space. Ironically to him, they felt almost ghost-like, as if devoid of life or spirit. He turned his glance away, attempting to avoid their empty expressions, for they filled him with incredible sorrow.   
  
Suddenly, he saw Aragorn halt. To Boromir's great surprise, before him stood Legolas, a wide smile on his face. The Elf said nothing, but merely nodded, as if he knowingly had predicted this event. Aragorn smiled in return, and they quickly embraced each other, glad of each other's renewed company. Speaking a few words of Elvish, which Boromir regretted that he could not understand, they began towards a large door, the likes of which he had seen only in the greatest strongholds of men. Aragorn spared no time in thrusting it open, his silhouette framed in the light of the doorway, his eyes firm, and his stance determined. Boromir admired his perseverance; his sense of spirit that was possessed by men few and far between was invigorating, and he carried with him a great sense of honour, no matter how Boromir tried to dissuade himself from the fact.   
  
Boromir recognized the figure of Théoden as they approached. He did not look trusting; his eyes were slightly narrowed, and he had a weary expression that he could not quite place.   
  
"Aragorn," he said slowly, almost unbelieving, unsure if some trickery was upon him. "I was told that you had fallen." The Ranger shuffled uncomfortably.   
  
"Théoden King," he replied courteously, but with a hint of worry, "I bring news of a great host. All Isengard is emptied." Boromir noticed how he did not bring attention to his disappearance, or indeed, to his apparent return from the dead.   
  
"A great host, you say?" he asked testily, neither pleased nor entirely assured of this information. He halted, his eyes riddled with concern. "How many?"   
  
Aragorn's expression changed to one of great seriousness.   
"Ten thousand strong at least." Théoden's eyes widened, and his lips parted in utter and genuine shock.   
  
"Ten _thousand_?" he repeated, his eyes darting in worry. There was silence for a brief moment, as he tried to consider this overwhelming thought. Aragorn brought it upon himself to raise his voice.   
  
"It is an army bred for a single purpose," he said carefully, holding Théoden's gaze, "to destroy the world of Men." Théoden looked away, attempting to free himself from Aragorn's overbearing stare. But Aragorn now gazed down, his face blanketed in shadow. "They will be here by nightfall."   
  
Théoden closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth in bitterness. Aragorn was no King - he was but a Ranger. What did he know of these matters? Glaring at him, he opened his mouth to speak.   
  
"Let them come," he said with great scorn.   
  
_What are you thinking?_ thought Boromir to himself, suddenly feeling drained numb. _Helm's Deep is not strong enough to resist an attack of that scale!_ Had his irrationalities overridden his senses? Boromir sighed pitifully. He knew the men here were not trained for battle. He had seen them – seen their haggard, tired faces; seen the shock in their eyes when they were handed a sword, shield, or bow. These were no warriors – they were innocent people!   
  
He followed them as they walked outside, determined, in some way, to help. Théoden was clearly adamant on his decision, issuing orders to his soldiers, preparing them for the siege.   
  
"Send out riders, my lord," Aragorn pleaded, "you must call for aid." Théoden turned to face him.   
  
"And who will come?" he spat. "Elves? Dwarves?" He eyed Aragorn's companions warily, and shook his head. "We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead." Aragorn stepped forward.   
  
"Gondor will answer." Boromir caught his breath. Over all his travels with the Fellowship, through all their hardships and trials, he had never once heard Aragorn declare his allegiance to the race of Men…but with these thoughts crept back long-forgotten memories, memories that were only now being awoken…_"I swear to you I will not let the White City fall, nor our people fail…"_Boromir steadied himself as the memory returned. It was as if he had been in a dream all this time, as if he had not seen through this barrier, this curtain which shrouded his last thoughts. It was as if a part of him had returned. And Aragorn…Aragorn had sworn his allegiance, to Gondor and his people…he remembered it all now. His breath trembled, and he raised a hand to his forehead, with the realisation that Aragorn was carrying his flame – and he would carry it to Gondor, and see its glory restored. He remembered how he had gulped in his last breath, spoken his last word, a word which only Aragorn would hear - how everything had faded to darkness, and all the pain was gone with the light – leaving him alone, until somehow, he had awoken again…these thoughts filled him with renewed hope he had not known in a long time. _He is truly worthy of the crown of Gondor_, he thought, smiling to himself. The utmost faith that Aragorn had in his beloved land had shown him this. "Gondor?" Théoden scoffed. "No, my lord Aragorn, we are alone." Boromir felt the pit of his stomach fall as he heard these spiteful words. _Gondor has its own affairs_, he thought, rather maliciously, though slightly ashamed at Théoden's distrust. If his land had caused the King of Rohan to feel so, who else might lose faith in the Stewards? Théoden turned, leaving Aragorn lost for speech.   
  
"Get the women and children into the caves," he said sternly. It was clear that he was entirely adamant. In his mind, Helm's Deep would not be breached; could not be breached. "War is upon us!" Boromir knew that there was not enough time – he knew that they were not prepared – and yet, there was nothing he could do to prevent it. If he could not protect his people, for whom he had lived for, and for whose safety he had strived – if he could not do his duty to Gondor – then why was he here? He cursed quietly to himself. Battle was looming; he could feel it in the stale, dusty air. And he would not be a part of it.   
  
The gate was secured, and the lengthy but hurried process of preparing for the siege began. Boromir separated from his companions, drawn to the plight of these men, of these families, torn apart by a power they did not understand. He saw many children, tears streaming down their frightened and innocent faces, as they were carried down to the safety of the caves. Their fathers and brothers would receive no such refuge. Men who had never wielded a sword now held one in their shaking hands – these men had never seen battle. Boromir could barely remember a time without it. _What has caused this madness?_ he thought despairingly, a tear forming in his eye as he saw a young boy, his hand quivering in fear, gazing afraid at the weapon he held in his hand. _He is but a child. He cannot carry this burden_. But the burden was on all of them now, for none could escape it.Suddenly, in the distance, he heard an unmistakable sound. He quivered with utmost fear as he felt the pounding of boots shake the earth beneath him. _They are coming_, he thought, his breath trembling. _There is not enough time…_The shouts of men struck fear in the hearts of every would-be soldier, and Boromir heard a pattering of rain thrash against the window. Burning flames could be seen in the distance; flames of fury, menace and hate, steadily approaching the Deep for what seemed like an age. Boromir remained dutifully with the men – _his_ men. He would not see them fall, not like he had. Tonight, they would be victorious!****


End file.
